The Simpsons (1989–…): Season 22, Episode 3 - MoneyBart - full transcript

D'oh!

♪ ♪

♪ The Simpsons 22x03 ♪
MoneyBART
Original Air Date on October 10, 2010

♪ Who's that lady? ♪

♪ Who's that lady? ♪

♪ Beautiful lady ♪

♪ Who's that lady? ♪

♪ Lovely lady... ♪

♪ Who's that lady? ♪

♪ Real fine... ♪

Wow! She's everything
I want to be!



♪ Calling out to you 'cause it's
all that I can do ♪

♪ Your eyes tell me to pursue ♪

♪ But you say, "Look, yeah,
but don't touch, baby" ♪

♪ No, no, no, don't touch... ♪

What's a babe like her

doing with a brown
banana like Skinner?

Maybe she's one
of those sexy

school supply
company reps.

If that's true, where's her
suitcase with wheels, Bart?

Where's her suitcase
with wheels?

Ah, if it isn't
Eavesdrop Ernie

and the Listen-In Bunch.

I'd like you boys
to meet Dahlia Brinkley.

She's the only
Springfield Elementary alum



ever to advance
to the Ivy League!

There's a car in the parking lot
with a Yale sticker on it.

It's gotta be you!

I just graduated from Yale,

and thought I'd pay
a visit, from Yale,

to the little school
where it all began.

I plan to attend
an Ivy League school myself.

I do he a 0 GPA.

She can do the kind
of math that has letters.

Watch. What's X, Lisa?

Well, that depends.

Sorry. She did it
yesterday.

I believe you. What
else have you got?

Um, I'm treasurer
of the Jazz Club,

and started the school's
recycling society.

Nice. And?

Uh, that's it.

Two clubs?

Well, that's a bridge bid,
not an Ivy League application.

But I'm only in second grade.

By your age, I'd been
the dominant force

in dozens of
extracurricular
activities.

Quite so. Just take a look
at her yearbook.

♪ The boys next door,
the mums and dads ♪

♪ New weds and nearly deads ♪

♪ Have you ever been had in
Clubland? ♪

Wonderful year.

Same year we got
new playground sand.

Yes, it was.
Mm-hmm.

Thrust! Parry! Dodge!

Poke! Come on, Maggie.

I need to get
good at fencing

so I can put it on my
resume and get into Yale.

Don't be scared.

I won't hurt my
widdle sister.

♪ ♪

Ooh!

Oh!

Sweetie, you can
still go to McGill--

the Harvard of Canada.

Anything that's the something
of the something

isn't really the anything
of anything.

Hello, Flanders.

Don't you have a neighbor
on the other side?

Indeedily-doodily I do,

and I love him just
as much as you.

It's a Flanders sandwich
with great neighbor bread!

Bart, call me Walter Matthau,
'cause I'm a bad-news bearer.

I'm resigning as manager
of your Little League team.

What?! Why?!

In the last game, our
shortstop hit a long foul ball,

but the umpire
called it a homerun,

and I let it go
without saying a word.

I just don't like the monster
I've become.

Oh. But without a coach,
we can't play!

Homie, maybe
you could do it.

Sorry, Marge.
Last time I stepped

on a baseball
field, I got tased.

You know, someday these kids
will be out of the house,

and you'll regret not spending
more time with them.

That's a problem
for future Homer.

Man, I don't envy that guy.

Can't play baseball.
What am I gonna do?

Son, how would you like
to spend the summer

building wooden boats
by hand

with master craftsmen?

How'd you like to kiss my ass?

Look at me,
I'm Whitey Ford!

Huh?

What's going on?

We got a new coach!

Awesome!
Who is it?

It's me.

Lisa?!

What, you can't stand the idea

of a girl coaching
a boys' baseball team?

No, we can't stand
the idea of someone

who knows nothing about baseball
coaching a baseball team.

Hey, there have been plenty
of female managers in baseball.

Connie Mack, Sandy Alomar,

Terry Francona, Pinky Higgins.

Those are dudes!

Really? They sound like...

I mean... Well, the thing...

Ooh... no.

Okay, bottom line--

I need
an extra-curricular activity,

and no one else will
coach you loveable losers.

We're not losers. Last year,
we finished six and five.

And we're not loveable.

We had a tall, freckled-faced
kid on the team

that we picked on till he quit.

Hey, Splatter-face!

How's the weather
up there?

It's too bad,
'cause he's a great hitter,

but it's worth it.

Look, if you want to play
liability-insured baseball,

I'm your only shot.

Fine, you can be our coach.

Thanks. You can be
the free safety.

Wrong sport.
I mean the point guard.

Also wrong.
I'm gonna do
a little research.

A little's not gonna be enough,
honepie.

Don't call me honey pie.

You got it, tootsie pop.

Get a room, you two.

We're brother and sister.

So are my parents, I think.

Hey, Dad?

Hey, pal, how you doing?

Fine. I was hoping

you and your friends
could tell me something

about baseball strategy.

The only thing I
know about strategy is

that whatever the
manager does, it's wrong,

unless it works, in which case
he's a button-pusher.

I hate guys that just
push buttons all day.

You just push
buttons all day.

You know, ever since
Obama came in,

you've got all the answers,
don't you?

Ugh! Does anyone here

actually know anything
about baseball?

Uh, the guys
in that booth down there.

As a pitcher, Cliff Lee is
clearly superior

to Zack Greinke.

Uh, yes, I completely agree,

with the following
colossal exception.

Before the fourth inning
after a road loss

in a domed stadium.

Th it's good to be Greinke.

Uh, unless he's got a bunion,

in which case he is notably
ineffective.

Wow. I'm surprised you guys know
so much about a sport.

Oh, Lisa, baseball is a game
played by the dexterous,

but only understood
by the Poin-dexterous.

If you understand
what I've laid out there.

The key to understanding
the game is sabermetrics.

Huh?!

The field was developed
by statistician Bill James.

I made baseball as much fun
as doing your taxes!

Using sabermetrics,

even an eight-year-old girl
can run a ball club

with the sagacity
of a Stengel,

and the single-mindedness
of a Steinbrenner.

I call it a Stein-stengel...

Thanks, guys.

Hey, speaking of stats,

I'm none too pleased

about your ratio
of seats occupied

to beers ordered.

You mean
our SOBO?

Let's
calculate it now!

What's the conversion
factor for ginger beer?

Refreshingness
over effervescence.

Plus or minus tang.

Oh, why did I advertise
my drink specials

in Scientific American?

I can think of
three reasons.

First of all,
you...
Shut up.

So we're one-one in the third,

and Isotots manager Lisa Simpson

rearranges her defense
one more time.

I haven't seen this many books
in a dugout

since Albert Einstein
went canoeing.

Everyone shift
towards right!

Huh?

I caught a white apple!

Okay. Everyone
study two-out situations,

count management,

and I'll be back
with some gluten-free crackers.

Your spreadsheets!

Oh, my stupid sister's taken
the fun out of baseball.

What happened to stealing bases,

the suicide squeeze,
throwing a little chin music?

We're no longer
cellar dwellers.

Well, the team isn't.

This isn't the game
I grew up with,

the game played in the misty
ballparks of Enron Field,

or Pac Bell,
then SBC, now AT & T Park.

And from now on,
I'm gonna play my game.

Dummyball.

Bart Simpson on deck,

his bat's just hungering
for a homer,

like Chronos for his children.

Speaking of Homer,

Bart's father's name is,
you guessed it,

not on my fact sheet.

Bart, this guy's walked
the last two batters,

and if he walks you,
we win the game.

Don't swing at anything!

But I'm on a hot streak.

Hot streaks are
a statistical illusion.

I wish you were a
statistical illusion.

Well, there's a 97 %
chance I'm not,

so do what I say.

Ball one!

Ball two!

Don't swing.

I've ruined your favorite thing!

Oh...

Bart! Bart! Bart!

You disobeyed
your manager!

So what?
We won.

Bart! Bart! Bart!

Here's what: you're
off the team!

Get him out
of here, boys.

Conflicted,
conflicted, conflicted.

Come on, guys.

I had to get rid of Bart.

But he socked a
walk-off dinger.

That dinger was a fluke.

Not that I have
to defend myself to you.

Managers manage,
and players play.

Do alligators
alligate?

I don't know... yes!

I'm scared.

Here's my uniform,

since I won't be
needing it anymore.

Whoo-hoo!

Underpants dinner!

No, it's not.

Aww.

You know, Lis,

I'm glad I'm not
playing baseball anymore.

I think I'm more
interested in soccer.

Ow!

Hey. Cut it out!

You're upsetting
the gravy boat.

I'll put a stop
to this nonsense.

Lisa, can't you let your
brother back on the team?

Fly balls and fungoes come and
go, but family is forever.

Sorry Marge, I got
to call bullcrap on that.

The '69 Mets will live on
forever, but do you think

anyone cares about Ron Swoboda's
wife and kids?

Not me, and, I assume,
not Ron Swoboda!

What about
Bart's feelings?

Boys don't have feelings.
They have muscles.

Why do you say
such ridiculous things?

They sound good in my brain,

then my tongue makes not the
words sound very good, formally.

"Mama Bear said,

'I'm sure Sister Bear
will come to her senses.'"

"Then Pete Rose plowed into
his friend Ray Fosse..."

"...dislocating Fosse's shoulder
in a meaningless game."

"He had earned the
nickname 'Charlie Hustle'..."

"Mama Bear said,

'Families should stick together
because...'"

"...personal feelings get
between him and home plate!"

"'...anything
else is unbearable!'"

Excuse me?

With all this racket,

my boys can't get
their 16 hours sleep.

So, because of your
on-base percentage, Nelson,

you're the new leadoff
hitter. Questions?

When's Bart
coming back?

He's not.
He thought he was better

than the laws of probability.

Anyone else think he's better
than the laws of probability?

Well, you're not!

With me here in the booth is
brand-new color commentator

and former Isotots
great, Bart Simpson.

Bart, do you
miss the game?

No, no, no, no.

I got a lot goin' on.

I'm sure you do.

Milhouse hits a frozen rope
just past the diving shortstop.

There's a play
at the plate!

He's... safe.

And that's all
she wrote.

It's a triumph of
number-crunching

over the human spirit.

And it's about time.

Look, Dad.

"Players and
Coaches Entrance."

Hey, let's hold hands
and skip inside.

Well, let's go
to the bleachers.

I brought an air horn
and a megaphone.

Testing...

Actually, I'm taking you

on a "special little guy
super happy fun" day.

Are you taking me
to the dentist?

You're not going
to the dentist.

You know, Mom, after only seven
hours in this amusement park,

I'm finally
enjoying myself.

I'm actually starting
to forget about...

Lisa?

She wants to
talk to you.

Hey Lis.

Bart, I need you.

Ralph can't play,
'cause he's too juiced.

I didn't know what I was putting
into my body.

Sorry, sis.
I've moved on.

And my days of listening
to my manager are over.

Son, you should always listen
to your manager.

Mike Scioscia!

Didn't you get
radiation poisoning

working at the
Springfield Nuclear Plant?

I sure did,

and it gave me
super-managing powers!

I also demagnetize
credit cards.

Bart, I have
two pieces of advice.

First, keep your arms
in the damn car.

Whoa!

Secondly, I don't care if
your manager is your sister,

Dick Drago's mustache,
or Oscar Gamble's afro.

A player should always listen
to his skipper.

That's how I got these three
World Series rings.

Never mind that.
I'll win more.

But you owe it to your sister,

and the great game of baseball--

wacky face for the camera--

to go back
and help your team.

Now, who wants
funnel cake?

You got some great
raw ingredients, kid.

Open up your
stance a little.

Wrong, wrong, wrong.

That's okay.

You just didn't
have it today.

Not everything's
baseball.

Yes, it is.

Oh! What am I gonna do?

I need a pinch-runner
with speed!

How about a benchwarmer
who's afraid of puppets?

Did someone order
a happy ending?

Bart!

Oh!

Now get out there
and kick a field goal!

Kidding.

And that's why anyone
who invested with Lenny Dykstra

really should call that number.

Lawyers are standing by.

Simpson on first,
taking a big lead.

Oh, looks like he's
gonna swipe the bag.

No, no.

Don't steal.

And there he goes!

He's stealing third.

Okay, okay, he's stolen third.

But surely, that's the limit
of his cockiness.

I'm stealing home!

No! The computer says
it's statistically impossible!

Bah.
Computers.

They'll never replace my
Huffnagle autocollator!

Crank it, Smithers.
Crank it!

It's, uh, seizing up, sir.

Yes, well apply
more goose grease.

Stealing home.
It's so impossible.

It's against every
sensible instinct.

It's, it's...

It's the most exciting
play in baseball.

Go, Bart!

If he makes it,
that's my son!

You're out!

The Isotots lose.

Now to begin my off-season
follow-home robberies.

I'll see you in
the parking lot,

but you won't see me
until it's too late.

You stink!

Did I make it?

No.

But you did
do something.

You made me
love baseball.

Not as a collection
of numbers,

but as an unpredictable,
passionate game

beaten in excitement only
by every other sport.

I guess your
computer was right.

Maybe it was, but according
to my calculations,

you're a great brother
51 % of the time.

And according
to my gut, you're okay, too.

Can you put a number on it?

Aww...

Conflict resolved.
Conflict resolved.

Conflict resolved.